


Start Again

by sunstarunicorn



Series: It's a Magical Flashpoint [46]
Category: Chronicles of Narnia - C. S. Lewis, Flashpoint (TV), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Merlin (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Seeking Reconciliation, What's Wrong With This Picture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-24
Updated: 2019-10-22
Packaged: 2020-10-27 10:50:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 16,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20759162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunstarunicorn/pseuds/sunstarunicorn
Summary: As Spike watches his father’s health deteriorate, he’s left to wonder why Dominic Scarlatti can’t be proud of his police officer son.  In the midst of his personal crisis, it takes him a few days to notice that one of his teammates isn’t acting quite right.  Things come to a head when Spike discovers his father holds the key to solving the mystery.  Now if only his father will give him another chance…





	1. Dying to Reach You

**Author's Note:**

> This story is the forty-sixth in the Magical Flashpoint series. It follows "Contingency Plan".
> 
> Although all original characters belong to me, I do not own _Flashpoint_, _Harry Potter_, _Narnia_, or _Merlin_.

Dominic Scarlatti’s hand trembled as he lifted his television remote to change the channel. Once, he’d ignored the television, preferring to work hard and make sure his family was well-provided for. One of many things the cancer had forced him to change his mind about, the television offered, even temporarily, an escape from the prison his body had become. It had also proved to be a useful weapon in his ongoing conflict with his son.

In truth, he was as proud of his son as he had ever been; the son he’d seen grow from a young boy to a proud, confident man. But his son was meant for so much _more_ than to risk his life for strangers who would never know the difference! He hadn’t slaved all those years so his son could go off and get himself blown up by some common criminal. Or arrested for a crime he hadn’t committed.

The old man nearly swore as the memory of that night surfaced; it had _rapidly_ outdistanced his previous most hated memory – the night his son had come home devastated over his friend’s near death. His wife’s wails as the cold, uncaring men with magic sticks dragged his son and his son’s best friend away. The brave face his son put forth, hiding his fear. He’d cradled Michelina, holding her close as she wept for their son, but he couldn’t manage so much as a tear.

**“Papá?”**

One finger shifted, pressing down on the remote, increasing the television’s volume.

His son sighed, but sat down next to him regardless. **“Evening, Papá.”**

Determinedly, Dominic fixed his eyes on the television, despite the bland and uninteresting commercials scrolling across the glass.

**“Today was a slow day,”** Michelangelo announced, seemingly oblivious to Dominic’s refusal to even grant his son a flicker of attention. **“Lou and I snuck another movie poster into Wordy’s locker.”** A wry grin. **“Had to tack on Roy and Giles to get us to Nine Walkers, but at least we got a laugh.”** A mock-grimace. **“Then Wordy showed it to Ed and pointed out which role we’d given him. We ended up doing sprints in full gear.”**

Dominic schooled his tongue sternly, refusing to ask his son any questions, though they burned in his mind. Walkers? Roles? The nine part, at least, was easier to grasp…he _did_ know his son was one of seven teammates. Still, he had to admit his son’s latest strategy was proving to be more effective than he’d thought at first…

* * * * *

_The old man waited until the door had closed behind his son to sneer. Stories? Michelangelo believed _stories_ were enough to overcome his objections? True, there was a part of him that was curious…somewhat curious…mildly curious…infinitesimally curious…about his son’s job and teammates, but stories? What did the boy think a few stories would accomplish?_

_And such outlandish ones at that! Did Michelangelo _really_ expect him to believe that his team had bested a group of experienced stick-wavers in a _game_? Did his son truly expect him to believe that two _children_ had transformed into _animals_, right near a ‘subject’, whatever that was, and gone _unnoticed_? Pure poppycock!_

* * * * *

But the stories had continued. Every night, his son came in with the news of the day, whether his job had been slow or so busy that Michelangelo had been left wondering which way was up. And when he’d finished sharing his news, Michelangelo would launch into his storytelling, sharing tales of such outrageous feats and accomplishments that Dominic would have believed them to be pure fantasy except… Except that Michelangelo’s voice never hinted at fakery or lies; Dominic knew his son well enough to know when he was lying. Which left the elder Scarlatti with the inevitable conclusion that the stories _weren’t_ fantasy. Either they were real or his son was insane. He _refused_ to even entertain the latter notion, so he was left with the former.

**“…so this poor kid’s bright red as his dad yells at the clerk and Ed, and I swear the mother would’ve killed her husband if she could’ve…”** Michelangelo chattered on.

Dominic kept his eyes forward as he sought to catch up with his son’s trail of words. Oh, yes, some sort of party with lasers and contests and his son’s team completely showing up the other team. He restrained his snort with an effort. Who had been _fool_ enough to participate in any sort of shooting contest against a group of cops?

When the flow of words stopped and Michelangelo departed, Dominic was left alone with his television and his thoughts, neither of which were anywhere near as good of company as they’d once been. Almost against his will, the dying man let his eyes trail to the door and part of him wished that Michelangelo would come back so he could ask about the lasers and the movie poster and why his son’s team leader had objected to being portrayed as ‘Samwise Gamgee’, whoever that was.

In truth, he _missed_ his son, missed him fiercely, but his pride refused to let him back down from the stance he’d taken. He could not, _would_ not, bend and admit that his son had been right to defy him. No, the only solution was that Michelangelo would leave his job and find a new one, one that was _much_ less dangerous than his current one. So that Michelina would have someone to care for her once he was gone. So that they would someday have grandchildren, fine, strong young ones to carry on the Scarlatti name and do their family proud. Not a coffin and a folded flag, laid in his widow’s trembling arms.

And yet…his son had not backed down. Almost as if his son regarded his job and teammates as more _important_ than his family. Than his parents. It was shameful, but Dominic had no way to rein his son in. No way save the method he’d been using for the past year, at least. A punishment that wasn’t working and that his son was beginning to use against him.

Alone in his room, Dominic buried his head in his hands and silently begged for God to bring his son _back_ to him.

* * * * *

Spike sighed, slumping down on his bed rather than doing anything with his computer or his games. He was too sick at heart for that. His father’s eyes had moved towards him tonight, just a bit, but he hadn’t asked any questions, despite Spike changing tactics and leaving little details out of his news and his story for the night. He’d hoped that would finally prove to be the trick, the wedge to get his father to actually _talk_ to him, even if it was just a question. But his father had held firm, staring into his blaring TV and not giving Spike even so much as a twitch of encouragement. The slight eye movement had probably been a fluke, to boot.

Resigned, Spike pulled his notebook up on the bed, writing a few lines in it to note down which stories he’d already told his father. Then he stuck the end of his pen in his mouth as he debated…should he tell his father more about Wordy’s bracelet? He’d already sketched out the basics and even told his father about the ongoing _Lord of the Rings_ teasing. He winced a little, remembering Ed’s revenge for the Samwise Gamgee comparison. Though, come to think of it, Ed _might_ have been angrier over the Roy as Boromir thing. Spike hurriedly switched back to his plotting. Should he share more? Or should he move onto another pack of stories? After thinking the issue over a bit more, Spike shrugged and wrote in a few new ideas for stories. It was lighthearted enough – and stayed far, _far_ away from the more intense tales he hadn’t been willing to share. No need to make things _worse_, after all.

The bomb tech slid the notebook back in its hiding place. He was running out of time…day by day, his father drew closer and closer to the end. But giving in and walking away from his team wasn’t the answer. After everything they’d gone through, it _couldn’t_ be an answer. Spike considered curling up and just going to sleep, but a clatter of wind against the outside of the house drew his head up. Naturally, his eyes fell on the bookshelf sitting right next to the window.

After a moment of thought, Spike pushed himself off his bed and headed over to his bookshelf, pulling down _The Magician’s Nephew_. If he couldn’t change his circumstances, then maybe he could escape them, at least for a little while. Going back to his bed, Spike flopped down with his book and dove into its pages, trading modern day Toronto for turn-of-the century England.

But even as he read, in the back of his mind, Spike sent out a silent plea for Aslan to bring his father _back_ to him.

* * * * *

Two souls, each desperate to reconcile, but kept apart by stubborn pride. Two prayers, near identical, each with a secret addendum that nothing be required of _them_ in the _answer_ to their prayer. Each expected the other to give way completely, but it wouldn’t, _couldn’t_, happen that way. He would not interfere with their free will. The Lion’s gaze was steady, His pawprints light as He moved through Time and Space. They had called upon Him and He would answer, even if that answer came in…quite unexpected ways.

The Lion’s tail lashed, just once, as He padded through His enemy’s realm. It was time they had a talk…


	2. What's Wrong With This Picture?

The next morning, Spike was quiet as he changed into his uniform. Internally, he was debating his next move in his ongoing efforts to reach his father, even as outwardly, he was as cool and raring to go as ever. Lou thwacked his shoulder, drawing out Spike’s impish grin as the pair quickly debated their next move in the ongoing _Lord of the Rings_ prank war. The debate halted as Wordy entered the locker room and Lou slipped back to his own locker.

“Morning, Wordy,” Spike called.

Wordy’s head came around and he looked blank, just for an instant, before he grinned back. “Hey, Spike.”

“So,” Lou teased, “How’d Shelley like the poster?”

Again, Wordy hesitated just an instant before he retorted, “As if I’d show her.”

Lou chortled, but Spike paused. After the initial surprise had worn off, Wordy had _liked_ the poster, laughing about how he was going to show it to Shelley and see what she thought. After a second, the bomb tech shrugged. So Wordy had changed his mind. No biggie.

* * * * *

_Wordy grinned at two nervous pranksters as he laid out the mock movie poster on the briefing room table._

_“Nice,” Sam drawled, an edge of wry, impish sarcasm to his tone._

_“I especially like Sarge as Gandalf,” Wordy announced. He jerked his thumb at Spike and Lou. “ ‘Course, these two cast themselves as Merry and Pippin.”_

_“Suits them,” Jules joked. “So, is Sam Legolas?”_

_Wordy choked on laughter. “Yep,” he confirmed, grinning madly. “And you’re Gimli.”_

_“What?” Jules leaned closer, then started laughing herself. “Hey, Ed, they brought in Roy and Giles to round us up to nine.”_

_“What?” Ed questioned, moving in closer. “Who are they playing?”_

_Spike froze as Wordy smirked deviously. “Well…” he began, his smirk widening. “Giles is Aragorn and Roy’s Boromir. Guess who that leaves _you_ as, Ed.”_

_Jules scooted out of the way as the team leader moved to see the whole poster, his eyebrows snapping together in a scowl._

_Lou and Spike traded ‘busted’ looks, then gulped as Ed loomed over them, one eyebrow hiked and his expression a study in unimpressed. “You guys cast me as the _gardener_?”_

_Behind Ed’s back, Wordy grinned victoriously at them and playfully swiped one finger across his throat._

* * * * *

The tech was just finishing up when he realized Wordy was standing right next to him. Turning, Spike arched a questioning brow at his friend.

Wordy fidgeted, looking embarrassed. “Look, uh, Spike, I’m having some trouble with my phone.”

“What’s wrong?”

“I can’t get into it,” Wordy confessed, offering the device. “I tried everything I can think of.”

Now _that_ was odd. The phones, rather than having a standard set of security protocols like most smartphones, had a nifty little system that magically detected if its owner was nearby and unlocked the phone. It had never failed before, but when Spike took the phone, he rapidly determined that yes, the phone had locked Wordy out.

“Lemme finish changing, then I’ll fix it up for you, buddy.”

Wordy’s grin lit up. “Thanks, Spike.”

“No problem,” Spike reassured his teammate.

* * * * *

Spike tried every trick in his considerable arsenal, but the phone stubbornly refused to magically unlock for Wordy. In desperation, Spike even temporarily changed the phone’s owner to himself; the phone immediately unlocked for him. But when Spike shifted the owner back to Wordy, it reverted to refusing to unlock. Finally, Spike assigned a second PIN to the phone and went to find Wordy.

* * * * *

“You fix it?” Wordy asked hopefully after Spike waved him out of the workout room and led them both to the briefing room where the tech’s laptop was set up.

Spike sighed, shaking his head. “Sorry, buddy. This fix is going to take longer than I thought. I’ll have to do some research to figure out what’s up with the security. In the meantime,” Spike snatched up a piece of paper and handed it to Wordy. “That’s your PIN number. Use that to unlock the phone until I can fix it.”

“Copy that,” Wordy agreed, taking the paper and reading the PIN number on it. “Sorry for wasting your time,” he added as Spike handed him the phone back.

“No,” Spike disagreed, “I need to figure out why it’s not working right. You run into anything else, let me know.”

An instant grin. “You bet.”

Spike slumped down as Wordy headed back to the workout room. He _hated_ it when he couldn’t get technology to work right. Especially when it was so critical, like the phones. The PIN would work, but sometimes, seconds counted…that was what made the magical unlock so valuable. Turning back to his laptop, Spike was about to shut the machine down, but he misclicked and opened up the poster he and Lou had put together – the mock _Lord of the Rings_ poster. Studying it, Spike wondered why Wordy had changed his mind. Then the alarm went off and Spike had other things to worry about.

Even so, the tech couldn’t help but notice that Wordy’s responses throughout the hot call were just a bit slower than they should’ve been and the brunet constable wasn’t quite as on top of his game as he usually was. Though he noticed the issues, Spike wrote it off to Wordy simply having an off day. Everyone had them, nothing to worry about.

* * * * *

The bomb tech swung his locker door open, sighing internally. Another night when his father hadn’t even _looked_ at him and another day closer to when he wouldn’t be there anymore. Morose, Spike dallied through getting his uniform out and changing into it. Lou, recognizing that Spike wanted to be left alone, wisely did so, but Wordy, sailing in close to start of shift, didn’t seem to notice Spike’s lousy mood.

“Morning, guys,” he called as he made his way to his locker.

Spike looked up, but let Lou answer for both of them. “Hey, Wordy,” Lou called, swinging his locker shut. “See you out there.”

“Yep.”

As Spike finished changing, he kept his eyes on his locker, not particularly interested in banter. He closed up his locker and turned to leave, only to halt at Wordy’s concerned expression. “What?” Spike couldn’t help but ask, feeling defensive.

“You okay, Spike?”

Looking down, Spike admitted, “No, not really.”

“You want to talk about it?” Wordy pressed gently.

The bomb tech shook his head. “Not much to say, Wordy. Just have to keep going, one step at a time.”

Silence hung. “Yeah, know what you mean,” Wordy agreed.

Spike nodded and turned to go, then paused, glancing at his teammate. “What about you?”

“Me? I’m fine,” Wordy replied at once. Then he grimaced. “Um, actually, my phone’s acting up again.”

The tech frowned. Twice in as many days? “What’s wrong this time?” Spike questioned. “Is the PIN not working?”

“No, the PIN’s working just fine,” Wordy quickly reassured the tech. “It started beeping at me this morning.” The brunet dug his phone out of his pocket and offered it to Spike. “Not sure what the problem is; it looks like it’s working just fine…just won’t stop beeping every couple minutes.”

On cue, the phone beeped three times, then went silent again. Spike arched a brow and unlocked the phone. Then he bit back a sigh as he inspected the notification bar. “I know what’s wrong.”

“What?”

Spike waved the phone at Wordy. “Your battery’s almost dead.”

Surprise, then chagrin flooded Wordy’s face. The embarrassed constable looked away from Spike’s amusement. “Guess that would do it, huh?”

“Yep,” the tech confirmed. “I’ll hook it up so it doesn’t die on you today, but you’ll have to charge it up tonight.”

“Sure thing,” Wordy promised. “Thanks.”

Though Spike rolled his eyes to himself as he headed out the door, he wrote the incident off. After all, everyone made mistakes and Wordy sure wasn’t the first – or the last – person to forget to charge his cell phone. Still…Spike paused, looking down at the phone in his hands. Something was starting to bug him about the situation. Even if Wordy _had_ forgotten to charge his phone, why had he needed Spike to point that out? An uneasy shiver traveled up Spike’s back. Was Wordy’s bracelet failing? And if it was, could the kids fix whatever was wrong before Wordy had to leave Team One?

Determinedly, Spike shook the dark thoughts away. Wordy was fine, he’d just made a mistake, one any one could’ve made, and everything was all right. The bomb tech headed into the equipment locker and found a spare charger for the phone, plugging it in and making a mental note to tell Wordy where his phone was.

But as the shift wore on, Spike couldn’t help but notice that Wordy’s behavior was still off, his responses slower than normal. And his fellow constable completely forgot about his range time; all of them put in regular hours on the range to keep their skills up, but Spike knew for a fact that Wordy’d skipped his range time the day before, too.

* * * * *

Spike’s uniform was half on when Wordy thrust his phone in front of the bomb tech’s nose. Startled, Spike took the phone. “Again?” Three days in a row?

“I charged it up, but it’s shrieking again,” Wordy complained before he headed to his own locker.

The bomb tech put the phone down in his locker and wriggled into his shirt before speeding through the rest of his changing. When he was done, he picked up Wordy’s phone again and headed over to the upset constable. “Okay,” Spike ordered, giving the phone back, “Show me what’s going on.”

Wordy unlocked the phone, which promptly shrilled at both of them. Spike kept his eyebrows down with an effort; he _knew_ that tone and so should Wordy. After all, _Spike_ had been the one to develop the program for Wordy’s phone in the first place. Without saying anything, Spike pointed to the phone’s notification bar, which was flashing at them.

“Yeah, I saw that,” Wordy agreed, swiping down to open up the bar. “But I don’t get it…what’s the big deal about some stupid bracelet?”

Some stupid bracelet? What the heck? Spike kept his jaw from dropping with sheer willpower and by virtue of clenching his teeth so hard they ground together. The tech flicked his eyes down and noticed something else…Wordy’s wrists were bare and, more, there wasn’t any trace of a tan line on his teammate’s left arm. As if he hadn’t worn anything on his wrist for quite a while. But that wasn’t right…a shiver crawled up Spike’s spine and he internally snapped on high alert.

How he kept from betraying his emotions, he didn’t know, but Spike managed to adopt a thoughtful tone. “Okay, I can take a look at this, Word, but I’ll need to keep the phone for a day or two. That a problem?”

Wordy shook his head, shoving the phone at Spike with an expression of sheer relief on his face. As soon as Spike had the phone, the other man fairly bolted out of the locker room, as if he was afraid the bomb tech would change his mind. Spike shook his head as he opened up the phone again and tapped in the command to silence the bracelet alarm. Done, he took the phone to his locker and slipped it into his jacket’s inner pocket.

* * * * *

“Hey, Ed,” Spike called, swinging onto the treadmill right next to the team leader.

“Spike,” Ed returned, smirking as Spike started the treadmill and increased the speed to match Ed’s. The two ran silently for a few minutes, then Ed questioned, “Something up?”

Spike lifted one shoulder in a half-shrug. “Nah, just wanted to change things up.” He waited until Ed’s attention had shifted back to his workout before asking, casually, “Anything up with Wordy?”

Ed’s head snapped to the side. “Not that I know of. Why?”

“Just wondering,” Spike hastily deflected. Then he picked up his pace, letting his worry and frustration flow as he ran flat out on the treadmill.

* * * * *

By the end of the day, things were looking grim. No one, not even Sarge, seemed to have noticed anything off about Wordy. Sarge at least was understandable; he’d announced to the team a week ago that he’d turned his ‘team sense’ off and was planning on leaving it off as long as he could. At the time, Spike had been as enthusiastic as everyone else, but now he cursed Sarge’s rotten, rotten timing.

He could bring up what he’d noticed, but the bomb tech knew that ‘Wordy’ could legitimately deflect attention by pointing out the stress Spike was under. After all, with such intense personal problems, maybe Spike was starting to see things that weren’t there. No, Spike decided, he needed to figure out what was going on and gather more evidence before he went to either Ed or Sarge with his accusations.

Thoughtfully, Spike fingered his teammate’s phone. Maybe he was wrong, but he couldn’t just blow off Wordy’s odd behavior. And the phone in his hands was his best lead. The raven glanced around and tucked the phone back in his jacket’s inner pocket. One thing was for sure. Wordy wasn’t getting his phone back until Spike knew what the heck was going on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sometime today or this weekend, I will be putting up some "It's a Magical Flashpoint" art. Wordy's bracelet, in all three of its modes. I'd intended to put it up earlier, but well, _life_. It won't be immediate, as I post before going to work and artwork is a touch tricky (time-consuming), but it will be up before next Tuesday's (Tuesday, October 1st, 2019) update.


	3. On the Mystery of GPS

Spike headed straight for his room once he got home and fired up his computer. It hummed, coming online swiftly, and Spike flew through his password. As soon as he was logged in, Spike attached Wordy’s phone to the computer and pulled up his tracking program. He downloaded all the GPS coordinates from the phone, watching as the tracking program’s map of Toronto lit up with blue lines indicating where the phone had been and how long it had spent at each location. Spike debated, then narrowed the search to only the past four days. Then he started with the earliest time and started going through Wordy’s GPS history as if his teammate was a subject on the run.

The bomb tech narrowed his search parameters even further by excluding SRU Headquarters and Wordy’s home address. He studied one of the addresses, then shook his head; it was the address for the hot call they’d gone on that first day – the day Wordy had gotten locked out of his phone. Most of the other addresses were short stops and familiar to Spike; the team was close enough that they knew school and shopping locations. But three were unfamiliar.

Spike brought up the data for all three stops, examining the times and dates with as much scrutiny as possible. Two of them were in magic-side areas, a suspicious fact in and of itself. Most of Wordy’s magic-side trips were either to Gringotts, Shiloh, or magic-side hot calls. The coordinates didn’t match up to where Spike knew the former were located and the team hadn’t had a magic-side call in over a week, so that was right out. Thoughtfully, Spike examined the coordinates a moment longer, then pulled up a new text file and copied the coordinates, dates, and times into it. He labeled the file as ‘Suspicious magic-side stops’ and saved it. Going back to his tracking program, Spike focused on the final address. Tech-side, so his program had automatically assigned an address to the coordinates. And while Spike knew he’d never been to that particular address, it rang a distant bell. As if he’d heard the address or known about it before.

Opening up a new text file, Spike copied the address into it, then printed the file before transferring the dates and times to the file and saving it. Standing, the raven snapped up the sheet of paper before heading back out of his room and towards the kitchen. He peeked into the room, scanning for his mother, and perked up when he saw her.

**“Mamá?”**

Mrs. Scarlatti looked up from her meal preparations, surprised that her son was coming to her with such an uncertain look on his face. “Mikey?”

Spike tentatively approached the counter, sliding his paper across so she could see it. **“Mamá, do you recognize that address? I, um, I think I’ve seen it before, but I don’t know where.”**

The elder woman picked up the paper, examining the address intently. Silence hovered over the room for close to a minute before she shook her head and offered the page back to Spike. **“It rings a bell, but I don’t recognize it, Michelangelo.”** Spike’s shoulders slumped and he started to turn away, but his mother added, **“Ask your father. He might know.”**

It was the last thing Spike wanted to do, but he nodded nonetheless and headed for his father’s room. He pushed the door open and heard the television’s sound rise at once. Bracing himself, Spike entered the room and sat next to his Papá. He looked down at his printout, then thrust it as his father as he asked, **“Papá, do you know that address?”**

The sound from the TV cut off and Spike was hard put to keep his jaw from dropping. His father had _never_ muted the TV before. Then, a second miracle. His father took the paper, examining it for a moment. **“Yes, I do,”** the old man replied, his voice both wary and curious. **“Why do you ask?”**

**“I’m worried about one of my teammates,”** Spike explained at once. **“He’s been making stops at that address, so I was wondering what’s over there.”**

Dominic Scarlatti stroked his chin, regarding the address again. **“I can tell you what was there when I worked there,”** he remarked at last. **“But I haven’t been there since you were in high school, Michelangelo.”**

So _that_ was why the address had looked so familiar! **“That’s more than I have right now, Papá,”** Spike pointed out.

Shrewd dark eyes lifted to Spike’s. **“If I tell you, you will go there,”** the elder Scarlatti observed.

Blunt, Spike countered, **“I’m going there no matter what you tell me, Papá. I think my friend’s gotten himself into trouble and I’m going to find out what it is.”**

The old man grunted, considering Spike’s argument. **“You will tell me about this trouble,”** he ordered firmly.

Spike opened his mouth to protest, then stopped. Sighing, he rose, leaving long enough to retrieve Wordy’s phone. When he returned to his father’s room, he sat back down, playing with the device in his hands for a moment. **“You remember, a couple nights ago, I told you about me ‘n’ Lou pranking Wordy with a poster?”**

**“Yes.”**

The bomb tech blinked in surprise; he hadn’t realized his father had _actually_ been listening to him. Grimly, he forged ahead. **“We’re teasing Wordy, but really,”** Spike looked down at his father, **“We’re glad he got that bracelet of his.”**

**“Why?”**

Spike raked one hand through his hair. **“We almost lost him,”** he whispered, **“He was gonna transfer out ‘cause he’s got Parkinson’s and it’s been getting worse.”** Swallowing hard, Spike explained the chain of events to his father, emphasizing how _important_ the silver-hued bracelet was to Wordy’s job and quality of life. His father listened attentively, even questioning Spike on the details of the priceless magical object.

When the tech was finished, Dominic leaned back in his bed, considering the facts. **“What has happened to this device?”**

**“He’s not wearing it,”** Spike replied flatly. **“I noticed that today when he complained to me about his phone reminding him about ‘some stupid bracelet’. Wordy _wouldn’t_ say that, Papá, not in a million years.”** Fear shone in dark eyes. **“He’s in trouble, Papá, and I’m the only one who’s even noticed something’s wrong.”**

Dominic looked up at his son, noticing the fear written all over Michelangelo’s expressive features. Part of him wanted nothing more than to withhold the information his son wanted, in hopes that Michelangelo would forget this mad plan, but he knew it was a fool’s dream. No, his son had been perfectly serious: he _was_ going to the address on the page in front of Dominic, whether he had his father’s information or not. But there _was_ another option.

Michelangelo opened his mouth to speak, but stopped at his father’s sharp gesture. Dominic considered the paper and his son for several more moments, then nodded to himself. **“I will tell you what I can,”** he decided, **“But only if you agree to let me come with you.”**

**“Papá, it could be dangerous!”** Michelangelo protested at once. **“You can barely walk!”**

The old man was unmoved. **“That is my price,”** he replied firmly. **“If this is too dangerous for me, then you should not go either.”**

Michelangelo’s expression turned helpless. **“I can’t. If Wordy’s in trouble, I can’t just leave him behind.”** The boy swallowed. **“Will you stay in the car?”**

Holding his son’s gaze, Dominic shook his head slowly. **“I will not leave you alone.”** Father and son stared at each other, then Dominic arched a slow brow, demanding an answer.

His son’s shoulders slumped for an instant, then his eyes hardened. **“You have to listen to me, Papá. If I tell you to do something, you have to do it, no questions asked.”**

Dominic bristled, but Michelangelo was having no part of it.

**“Papá, out there, I won’t be your son. I’ll be a _police officer_ and I need to know you’ll obey my orders.”**

Although he didn’t like the idea of simply bowing to his son’s orders – it should be the _other_ way around – Dominic was forced to face the fact that his son was right. Outside their home, Michelangelo Scarlatti was _Constable_ Michelangelo Scarlatti. Therefore, he _wouldn’t_ be ceding his rightful authority to his son, he would simply be obeying the lawful orders of a police constable who _happened_ to be his son.

Reluctantly, Dominic inclined his head in acceptance of his son’s demand. Michelangelo blew out a breath and stood up, offering a hand to his father. **“Okay, you can tell me about this place on the way.”**

Shades of his usual attitude pushed forward and the elder Scarlatti made his way to his feet, pointedly ignoring his son’s helping hand. **“We will take your car,”** he ordered.

**“Yes, Papá.”**

Michelina looked very unhappy with both Dominic and their son, but she was wise enough to hold her silence as they headed past her and out to Michelangelo’s car. Dominic settled into the passenger seat, ignoring his son’s worried look before Michelangelo started the vehicle and backed out of the driveway.


	4. Stranger With a Familiar Face

Spike glanced around the area they’d arrived in. It looked as if it had once been a busy, bustling prosperous area, but those days were behind it. Now the sidewalks sported chipped, cracked concrete with more than a few potholes. The buildings had an air of neglect and appeared rather rundown. And more than a few streetlights were dark, a sure indicator that no one had bothered to change their burned out bulbs in _months_. It was late enough that there weren’t many people out, but Spike had a feeling that even at its busiest, this neighborhood was _dead_.

The building where his father had worked was actually in slightly better condition and the parking lot sported a fresh coat of blacktop. Even so, it was clear that, like the neighborhood, the building had seen far better days. Spike pulled into the parking lot and almost immediately cringed. **“What is it?”** his father demanded.

The constable pointed to a van parked in the lot. **“That’s Wordy’s van,”** he explained. **“I don’t want him to see my car.”**

A nod from his father. The elder Scarlatti pointed the other direction, towards a driveway. **“Go down the driveway,”** he instructed. **“There is a parking area down there and an open door into the building. Your friend will not see your car unless he goes through the employee area.”**

Spike turned the car, rolling down the driveway into the employees only parking lot. He parked without a qualm; the odds that he’d get caught at the end of the work day were nil. The bomb tech edged out of his car, his eyes narrow as he spotted the door his father had mentioned. Coughing and rasping, Mr. Scarlatti levered himself out of the front seat and led the way towards the door.

The raven constable stayed close, his stance tense and his eyes constantly on the move for trouble. The door led to a short staircase up into the main part of the building. The offices on the first floor were all dark, but Spike walked past all of them anyway, scanning for Wordy or any lights that might still be on. His father stayed by the staircases, apparently content to let Spike handle all the footwork, something Spike was perfectly fine with. If he could get his Papá home without anything happening, he would be a very happy son.

Returning to his Papá, Spike asked, **“What’s on this floor?”**

His father waved negligently. **“The bottom floor was always the floor that changed the most,”** he replied. **“When I was working here, I would see a new business every few months. A few lasted longer, but not many.”**

Spike nodded understanding. **“What about the other floors?”**

**“They might still be the same,”** the older man conceded. **“The first floor was the most fluid; the other floors usually had the same businesses year after year.”**

The bomb tech edged into the second staircase area; unlike the first staircase, the second served the entire building instead of being a shortcut from the parking garage. Spike listened intently, wishing for his boss’s keen hearing. When he didn’t hear anything, he waved his father into the staircase and the two headed upwards. Just as they reached the landing, his Papá began to hack and cough. Spike propelled his father out of the staircase, worried that they’d be overheard. Not a good thing when you were trying to slip in under the radar.

Once out of the staircase, Spike pushed the door shut behind them and waited for his Papá to recover from his coughing fit. As he waited, he pulled up the precise GPS coordinates on his phone as well as the building’s blueprints. It took a bit of jury-rigging, but Spike managed to overlay the GPS on the blueprints, showing the exact location in the building where the coordinates had been recorded.

With another tap, Spike expanded the blueprints up, nodding as the GPS coordinates glowed a steady green on the soft blue of the building blueprints. **“Papá?”** As his father turned, Spike held the phone out so both of them could see the hovering blueprints. **“Which business is the green dot over?”**

Dominic Scarlatti peered at the blueprints, a bit perplexed. **“Where are we?”**

Understanding, Spike pointed to the staircase area.

The old man rubbed his chin as he stared at the green dot. **“When I worked here, it was a shipping company,”** he replied. **“A small one, just in the city.”**

“Copy that,” Spike whispered, moving past his father and heading down the hall. Like the businesses on the ground floor, all of the lights were off. As he reached the door closest to the GPS coordinates, Spike moved closer and tried to peer through the windows. He had to crane his head and block the light with one hand, but he got enough of a look to be satisfied that no one was inside the office. Also that the office was being used, so the odds of nefarious activity were fairly low. Not impossible, but improbable and that was enough for Spike’s peace of mind.

The bomb tech crept back to his patient father and cautiously pulled the stairwell door open again. He ghosted onto the landing, peering over the edge and listening intently for several seconds. When he heard nothing, he hustled back to his Papá and got them moving up the staircase to the next level.

* * * * *

The search fell into a pattern. Spike would show his father the blueprints for the floor they were on, with the GPS coordinates glowing emerald in the middle of the blueprints, his father would tell him about the business that had been there years earlier, and Spike would head down the hallway, checking for any lights and investigating the office door closest to the coordinates. Each business was closed for the day, with the lights turned out, but Spike was able to see inside enough to satisfy himself that the offices were in use. One office on the fourth floor still had a light on, prompting some additional investigation, but Spike soon realized it was just an employee staying late to finish up a last minute piece of business. All the other offices were dark and utterly silent.

* * * * *

The Scarlattis failed to find Wordy on any of the building’s floors, leaving Spike feeling a bit dejected and guilty over dragging his father off his death bed for a wild goose chase.

**“I’m sorry, Papá.”**

His father looked over at him, a ghost of a smile on his face and his attitude more accepting than it had been ever since the Eco-Terror bombings. **“No, Michelangelo. You were worried about your friend. You are satisfied now?”**

**“I’m still worried about him,”** Spike replied at once. **“But I guess I’ll have to investigate another day. Let’s get you home.”**

The bomb tech pushed the stairwell door open and the two men stepped out, only for Spike to fling up his hand, demanding silence, and hustle to the edge of the landing. Looking over the railing, Spike stared straight down and finally got his first glimpse of his quarry. Wordy’s bootsteps echoed in the staircase as he climbed up towards the first floor. Spike’s eyes widened in shock; they hadn’t checked the _basement!_ He shifted back, watching for Wordy to look up, but the brunet constable never did. He disappeared through the first floor exit and didn’t reappear. Even so, Spike held as still as possible until the door below them clicked shut.

Then he looked back at his father. **“We need to check the basement, Papá.”**

* * * * *

Spike flicked his mirror out to check the corner, hunting for the _slightest_ sign of anything out of place. His father was behind him – and Spike had probably blown all his progress by ordering his Papá to _stay back_. The constable had his backup weapon drawn as he crept around the corner and scanned the hallway for any doors. There were two halfway down the hall and one at the end. Spike checked the two side rooms first, his progress slower and slower the farther they got with no trouble. Something about this whole scenario _felt_ wrong, _felt_ off.

With the side rooms cleared, only the heavy, iron door at the end of the hallway was left. Spike glanced over his shoulder at his father. **“Boiler room?”**

“_Sí_,” Papá confirmed.

The bomb tech edged to the door after firmly signaling for his father to stay put, an order the elder Scarlatti glared at him for, even as he reluctantly obeyed. As gingerly as possible, Spike pushed the door open, stepping back and to the side as the iron moved. He flicked his mirror out again, but there was no wire, nothing that hinted at any sort of booby trap.

Drawing in a deep breath, Spike flexed his fingers on his weapon, then he whipped around the door jamb, bringing his sidearm up as he moved. In less than a second, he was inside the boiler room and staring at the room’s contents in utter horror, his gun lowering as he gawped.

“Wordy!”


	5. OMAC Protocols

A rather worse for wear Kevin ‘Wordy’ Wordsworth was cuffed to a pole right next to the boiler. Next to him was a half-empty bottle of water and a plate with what looked like half of a dry sandwich. He had a black eye and a number of cuts and bruises on his face and arms. Two angled white scars stood out on Wordy’s forearms, a sight that made Spike’s insides squirm uncomfortably. Most of the time Wordy made sure the scars were covered up so his teammates – and his boss – didn’t have to be constantly reminded of McKean, but clad in a dirty, ragged, sweat-soaked old T-shirt, Wordy couldn’t hide his souvenirs. Spike inspected his teammate’s wrists and heaved an internal sigh of relief at the sight of Wordy’s mithril healing bracelet. Its runes were black instead of their usual blue, but it was _there_. Not missing.

The captive looked up rather blearily at Spike’s cry, then managed to perk up, life coming back into his gray eyes as he registered his teammate’s presence. “Spike! Boy am I glad to see you!”

Spike holstered his gun; no way Wordy was a threat while he was cuffed to a pole; but he had to be sure. Even with the bracelet, Spike had to double-check. And…what if…? “Wordy? OMAC Captain America.”

He heard his father’s incredulous snort from behind him, but Wordy’s eyes sharpened at the challenge. “Negative,” he retorted and, not waiting for Spike to follow up, he added, “No one way trips on my team.”

Spike let his breath out in a whoosh and moved to his friend’s side, checking the cuffs and frowning; they were _Wordy’s_ cuffs. “Word, what happened?” he demanded.

“Um, three, maybe four nights ago, I needed to stop for a last minute thing for Ally; she’s got a cold right now; and I’d just come out of the store when I got jumped.” The brunet’s brow furrowed. “At least, I think I got jumped. I blacked out and woke up here, cuffed to this pole.”

“Four nights ago,” Spike decided. “Your double started bugging me the next day with phone trouble. Polyjuice **(1)**?”

Wordy shook his head. “Can’t be, Spike. I don’t think I have enough hair for that and he hasn’t cut my nails or anything like that.”

“Well, he must’ve done _something_, Wordy. He looks just like you.”

“I know.”

Spike bit his lip at Wordy’s utterly discouraged expression, then paused, noticing something. “Wordy? When did you get cut?”

Wordy followed Spike’s gaze to a long, but shallow cut on the outside of one arm. After a minute, the constable slumped down again. “Don’t know,” he mumbled.

“Hey, Wordy, stay awake,” Spike urged, suddenly worried that his teammate had a concussion.

“ ‘M okay, just tired,” Wordy mumbled.

“What’s he been doing?” Spike questioned, trying to keep Wordy’s attention enough so that the injured constable would stay awake; the brunet’s pupils were slightly uneven and now that Spike was closer, he could see that Wordy’s white scars had turned just a bit red.

Wordy shook his head, trying to clear it. “That first night, he woke me up ‘cause he was trying to get my bracelet off,” he confided. “He already looked like me.”

* * * * *

_Wordy groaned, unsure of where he was or what had just happened. The last thing he remembered was coming out of the small convenience store with the cold medicine for Ally and heading for his car. He shifted, then jerked in surprise at the click of metal. His eyes widened as he registered the sight of his cuffs, around his wrists and a pole, then he reflexively slammed his weight back, trying to break them._

_“Don’t bother,” a voice sneered from above him. A _familiar_ voice, even if it sounded different than Wordy was used to._

_The constable’s head came up and his jaw dropped at the sight of…_himself_. What the heck? “Who are you?” he demanded angrily._

_His captor smirked with his mouth. “I’m you,” he taunted. Then he scowled and knelt, running a finger over Wordy’s precious, priceless mithril bracelet. “Take that off.”_

_“No,” Wordy refused, his jaw tightening in stubborn defiance._

_A wand angled at him. “Take it off.”_

_“No.”_

_“_Imperio_.”_

_An instant later, tension drained out of him as every thought in his head vanished. He was no longer aware of the cuffs around his wrists or even of the fact that he wasn’t alone. The only reality was the contentment and sheer happiness welling up from…somewhere. Even his usual curiosity was blunted and vague. The feeling of serenity around him was almost giddy and he relaxed into its hold, a blank smile spreading across his face._

_A voice rang in his head, telling him to take his bracelet off. He didn’t hear the cuffs clink as he brought his right hand across to flick the clasp open. Then he grasped the bracelet and pulled on it. But it stayed stubbornly in place. A detached frown touched his jaw as he reached up, pushing against the clasp to unfasten the bracelet. It didn’t open, so he pushed harder. The clasp held firm and he changed his grip, pulling on the bracelet as a distant sort of desperation welled up._

_He might’ve kept trying to remove the bracelet for hours or even days, but awareness abruptly cut through the fog and haze in his head. He gasped in shock, as if a bucket of cold water had just been dumped down his back, then he shook his head hard to dislodge the remnants of the curse and pulled his right hand away from the mithril bracelet as if he’d been burned._

_Wordy looked up at the stranger with _his_ face and spat, “Better luck next time.”_

_Amusement flashed over the other’s expression and he angled his wand again. “I wonder. Can you do that again? _Imperio_.”_

_His body relaxed into the curse’s hold, his mind going vague, happy, and dreamy again. Without knowing what he was doing, his hand moved back to the bracelet and his fingers dug into his arm as he worked to remove the bracelet._

* * * * *

Spike sighed internally at the precaution he _knew_ he had to take, even if he _hated_ it. Slipping his own cuffs out, he fastened them around Wordy’s wrists, refusing to flinch at the click as they closed. With his cuffs in place, the tech pulled out his cuff keys and undid the first pair of cuffs, easing them off his teammate and hissing at the tender, swollen flesh underneath.

**“Why do that?”** Papá questioned.

The bomb tech looked back and up at his father, but didn’t answer directly. Instead, he levered Wordy away from the pole. He started to lay his friend flat, but Wordy hissed in pain, prompting Spike to turn the other man on his side. Gently, Spike pulled the T-shirt up, wincing at the inflamed scars on Wordy’s back. “How bad is your back?” the tech questioned.

“About a five,” Wordy panted, only to get a pointed, hiked eyebrow from the raven constable hovering over him. “Okay, a seven,” Wordy gave in. “I think it’s all the heat in here.”

Spike ran his eyes between the pole and the boiler, then cringed. “I can see that,” he agreed. “Did he _Imperius_ you?”

A tired nod. “Yeah,” Wordy confirmed. “But, um, it kept breaking.” Skepticism blazed, but this time, Wordy refused to back down. “Spike, I’m serious. It’d last for a minute or two, then it would stop. He’s been trying to make it last ever since he grabbed me.”

The bomb tech’s eyes fell to the bracelet on Wordy’s wrist and he frowned thoughtfully. “Has he tried since your bracelet went to emergency mode?”

“Um…don’t know…maybe…”

Spike considered that response. If he understood the bracelet’s programming – and trusted Wordy’s report – then the subject probably hadn’t tried the _Imperius_ since the bracelet’s power fell below the emergency mark, deactivating three of its runic sequences. On the other hand, if he _had_…then Spike had to leave the cuffs on. “Okay, buddy, let’s get you outta here. Then I’ll let Sarge know what’s up and we can catch your double in the act.”

“Copy,” Wordy panted, doing his best to help as Spike hefted him up and steered them towards the boiler room’s door.

* * * * *

Once the three men reached Spike’s car, Dominic Scarlatti opened the back door before settling himself in the front passenger seat, staying out of the way. Spike maneuvered Wordy into the back seat, but he was achingly careful to keep from pushing Wordy against the cushions. With his teammate safely down, Spike pulled his phone out and speed-dialed his boss.

The phone rang twice, then Sarge picked up. “Spike? Something wrong?”

“ ‘Fraid so, Sarge,” Spike replied. He drew in a breath, then announced, “OMAC Captain America, Boss.”

The Sergeant stilled. Then, “You’re sure?”

“Affirmative,” Spike emphasized. “We’ve got an imposter running around, Sarge; I’ve got the _real_ Wordy in my backseat right now. He needs to get checked out and tested for the _Imperius_, plus his handy-dandy trinket’s running on emergency power.”

The bomb tech glanced down as Wordy waved to get his attention, then the brunet hissed, “Shelley.”

Spike stiffened. “Boss, our imposter might be at Wordy’s house right now.”

A low voiced curse escaped the Boss, then a sharp, “Stand by.”

Spike waited patiently as his boss juggled two phones for the next minute or so. Wordy wasn’t quite as patient, particularly with cuffs still on his wrists, but he understood why they were necessary. That didn’t mean he had to like them.

Then Spike snapped on alert and said, “Wait a sec, Boss.” Then he brought his phone down and tapped the speakerphone button. “Okay, Sarge, say that again.”

“Ed’s not picking up. Where exactly are you two?”

Spike frowned, working through the math for an instant. “Fifteen, twenty minutes from Wordy’s house, Boss.”

Their Sergeant considered that. “Status?”

“I’ve got my backup gun,” Spike reported. “But I want to get Wordy checked out before I take the cuffs off. And he’s not in great shape.”

“Spike!” Wordy protested.

The bomb tech shook his head. “Wordy, I couldn’t even lay you flat and you’ve got a concussion. Not to mention you just spent four days cuffed to a pole in a boiler room. You’re in no shape to tackle this guy.”

“I’m with Spike on this one, Wordy,” Sarge cut in over the phone. “Spike, it’s up to you. I can meet you at Wordy’s house with the kids, but if you’d rather not, I’ll head over there by myself.”

Wordy cast Spike a pleading look, his fear for his family clear. Spike held back a sigh and turned his head towards his father. The elder Scarlatti had turned in his seat to watch and listen; when he felt Spike’s eyes, he looked up, meeting Spike’s gaze. For a few seconds, the patriarch looked between his son and his son’s injured teammate, his emotions impossible to read behind his impassive expression.

Then he inclined his head in acceptance. Spike accepted that, shifting back towards his phone. “Copy that, Sarge. We’ll head for Wordy’s house.”

“All right; see you there.”

The phone clicked off and Spike slipped it away. “Spike?”

“Wordy, don’t thank me,” Spike retorted, his gaze fierce as he shut the back door. “Just don’t.”

Less than a minute later, Spike’s car squealed out of the parking lot, hauling into a sharp left to angle for the Wordsworth homestead.

[1] A potion used to take on another person’s appearance. Only works with individuals of the same species. Each dose lasts anywhere from ten minutes to twelve hours, depending on how well it’s been brewed.


	6. Wordy Versus Wordy

Spike pulled into the Wordsworths’ driveway, breathing a sigh of relief at the distinct _lack_ of Wordy’s van in the driveway. The constable slid out of his seat, debating his next move, then turned at the sound of a car engine. He tensed, then relaxed at the sight of his boss’s dark blue SUV pulling up on the street. Almost before the vehicle came to a halt, the back doors opened and Sarge’s _nipotes_ scrambled out of the backseat, heading straight for Spike’s car.

The bomb tech hustled around the front of his car and yanked the back door open. Wordy did his best to squirm out, but between the cuffs and his back, couldn’t quite manage to leverage himself out of the car. It was Lance, taller than his uncle and bidding fair to get even taller – his still-growing body a mix of broad shoulders and a lanky, sparse frame – who hauled the brunet constable out and maneuvered him to half sit, half lean on Spike’s trunk.

The mithril bracelet lit gold as Lance charged it and Alanna joined the group. Dominic Scarlatti, with Spike’s help, lumbered out of the car to watch as the teens dealt with their uncle/cousin’s injuries. Alanna gently pulled up Wordy’s dirty shirt and reached up to rest her hand above the inflamed scars. “_Ahluttre tha seocness. Thurhhaele braed. _**(2)**”

Wordy’s shoulders slumped and tension drained from his face as the healing spell took effect, soothing the scar tissue and eliminating the worst of the injuries the constable had taken during his captivity. The mithril bracelet’s runes glowed green for a minute before shifting to blue once Lance had fully charged it; the teen topped off the charge, then pulled his wand to cast what looked like a quick diagnostic on the bracelet.

“Security spell’s been triggered,” he announced after a moment.

Alanna looked up. “My magic’s picking up a few traces of dark magic, but nothing active right now.”

Sarge joined them, absorbing the twin reports. “So he’s clear?” he pressed, gifting his _nipotes_ with a challenging look.

“He’s clear,” Lance confirmed, sheathing his wand and stepping back out of the way.

Spike wasted no time in removing his cuffs from Wordy’s wrists; both constables sighed in relief as the cuffs fell away. Wordy rubbed his wrists absently as he looked his boss in the eye. “Sorry for missing work, Sarge.”

The Sergeant smiled briefly at the weak joke. “Kidnapping is an extenuating circumstance, Constable Wordsworth,” he teased gently. Then his expression shifted to firm and unyielding. “Spike, any sign of our OMAC?”

“Negative, Boss,” Spike replied. “He’s driving Wordy’s van and it’s not here.” He glanced at the garage. “Unless…”

“It’s not in the garage,” Wordy cut in. “Garage isn’t tall enough for my van. Shelley parks in there and we use the rest for storage.”

“Copy,” Sarge acknowledged. “Let’s go talk to Shelley, see if she knows where our OMAC is.”

Wordy pushed off from the trunk, but had to be caught by Spike as his legs, stiff from his captivity and cramping, buckled. “Easy there, Wordy,” Spike teased. “No dirt naps.”

The constable grumbled under his breath, gathering himself and standing straight. “I’m okay, Spike.”

The kids hung back as Wordy took the lead, with Spike and his Sergeant right behind him. Dominic Scarlatti’s expression was a trifle uncertain as he watched his son slip seamlessly into his role as an SRU police constable, but he soon found himself behind his son’s boss and in front of the two magical teenagers; the young wizards refused to leave him behind, just in case.

* * * * *

“Shelley?” Wordy called as he entered his home, glancing around in worry. Nothing looked out of place, but tension was sky-high and fear shone in gray eyes.

“Kevin?” Shelley appeared from the kitchen, her expression confused. “What are you doing back so soon?”

Wordy surged forward and swept her up in a hug before she could register his black eye, the scruffy T-shirt, or his teammates at his back. “Shel,” he breathed. Then he stiffened. “Wait, ‘back so soon’?”

Still confused, Shelley nodded. “You told me you were going over to Ed’s house.”

Pulling back, Wordy looked his wife in the eye, drawing in a breath to break the news. But before he could speak, Emmy practically dive bombed him, squeaking in relief and glee. Almost before Wordy knew it, the emerald hummingbird was perched on one wrist, her beak anxiously investigating the still sore and slightly bruised flesh around his mithril bracelet. Worried trills rose from the magical glass creature, though Emmy also seemed to be able to sense the lingering traces of Wild Magic around him.

Shelley looked down at the bird in surprise. “Emmy,” she scolded lightly. “You’ve been avoiding Kevin like the plague for three days straight and now all of a sudden you’re back to using him as your favorite perch?”

Wordy flushed as a few choked off sniggers rose from behind him; Spike would _never_ let him live this one down. “Shelley, that wasn’t me,” he interrupted, though awe bled through the embarrassment. “Emmy must’ve been able to tell,” he realized, shock shading his voice.

“What do you mean that wasn’t you?” Shelley questioned, frowning in confusion as she reached up and tilted his chin so she could see his face better. “Kevin, what happened to your face?”

Wordy fought the urge to hang his head and shuffle his feet like a misbehaving school boy. “I think it was after the third _Imperius_. Or maybe the fourth.” On his wrist, Emmy chittered angrily, her wings flaring out and blurring as she lifted off to flutter around him anxiously.

Shelley gasped, finally grasping what was going on. “Kevin? Who was in here before?”

“That’s a good question, Shelley,” Sarge put in, maneuvering around Wordy. “We’re still trying to figure that out.” His head turned towards his other constable. “Spike, any estimates on how long we’ve been dealing with this imposter?”

The Wordsworths turned, Shelley burrowing her head into her husband’s chest as she clung to him. Around the couple, Emmy dipped and spun, her concern for her family just as clear as the glass that formed her. Spike’s expression was grim, though it lightened a shade at the hummingbird’s antics. “Three days, Boss.” He gave Wordy a chagrined, apologetic look. “Sorry, buddy, I should’ve cottoned on as soon as he told me he couldn’t get into your phone.”

“At least you _did_ catch on,” Wordy countered softly. He looked towards his boss. “Lemme guess…you didn’t notice ‘cause the ‘team sense’ is off.”

“Not just that,” Spike cut in before Sarge could speak. “This guy must’ve been watching us for a while, Wordy. He’s got your usual banter down pat. There were a few little things, but nothing that was screaming ‘imposter’.”

“I didn’t notice anything either,” Shelley pointed out, her self-disgust ringing in each word. “Not even when Emmy hid in Claire’s room and refused to go anywhere near him!”

Wordy shook his head in both dismay and disbelief, then arched a brow at Spike. “Anyone get hurt ‘cause of this guy?”

“No,” Spike reassured his friend. “We did have a hot call that first day, but Sarge negotiated ‘em right down lickety-split. Never had to make entry or _anything_.”

“The last two days have been quiet,” Sarge added. “Workouts and training, although I was getting a bit concerned. The subject hasn’t done any range time.”

“Still…” Wordy sighed, shaking his head. Tossing blame around wasn’t going to help matters, even if he felt like his teammates _should_ have noticed ‘he’d’ been acting off. But he couldn’t really blame them when even _Shelley_ hadn’t caught his double – actually, he was grateful she hadn’t. Unarmed woman – plus a fragile, glass hummingbird – versus wizard…not good.

Sarge, in the meantime, had moved on. “Okay, Shelley, you said the subject told you he was heading for Ed’s place?”

“Yes,” Shelley confirmed.

“Matches with Eddie not picking up,” Sarge murmured. “Spike, you and I’ll head over there. We can take my car and I’ll bring you back here afterwards.”

“Copy,” Spike agreed at once with a sharp nod.

“Wait, you two aren’t going _alone_, are you?” Wordy demanded.

“Wordy, you’re in no shape for a takedown,” Sarge countered.

Wordy bristled. “This guy was in _my house_. Near _my family_. You’re not leaving me behind, Sarge.” Gray met hazel and held, refusing to blanch or back down, even as Emmy added her own fierce squeaks and trills, tiny claws extending as if to savage the absent imposter.

“I’ll get Kevin’s backup gun,” Shelley volunteered quietly as the stand-off continued. She knew her husband; it wasn’t a matter of who would win, but how long it would take before Greg backed down.

* * * * *

Greg led the way towards Ed’s house. Wordy’s van, parked in the driveway, was both a welcome and a not-so-welcome sight. The good news: they now knew exactly where the subject was. The bad news: he could well have the whole of the Lane family as his hostages, particularly given he’d already tried to use the _Imperius_ on Wordy. The Sergeant paused, listening intently, then cocked his head to the side. Voices. From Ed’s backyard.

He signaled towards the backyard and ordered Spike to go first. The bomb tech moved smoothly, making his way to the gate and taking his stance on the opposite side. Wordy was pointed to the near side and Greg took the middle; the Sergeant considered, then slid his gun back in its holster so he could lift the gate up with one hand and open the latch with the other. Still holding onto the gate, he forced it open. The lack of weight on the hinges meant the gate made no sound as it moved. Spike and Wordy covered their superior as he push/carried the gate until they could enter. Greg let the gate down, praying it wouldn’t move and squeak. It didn’t.

Drawing his weapon again, Greg signaled his constables to the nearby wall and edged farther into the backyard, scanning for Ed and their subject. He stiffened as he spied them, standing side-by-side and bantering the evening away. They were facing away, but that could change at any second…

* * * * *

Fury scorched through Wordy’s veins as he spotted the imposter, standing next to Ed and laughing, _laughing_, with him. Memories of the past four days tumbled through his head and he broke protocol without even consciously thinking about it. Without a word, he slid his gun back in its holster and moved across the grass, his rage growing as he moved.

“Hey!”

His double whirled, right into his right hook. Ed turned, but there was a blank look in his eyes and he didn’t seem to even register his teammates’ presence. The wizard on the ground looked up, rather dazed by the surprise attack. Then he recognized Wordy and launched himself upwards with a roar.

Wordy went over backwards with his opponent on top of him. The two men traded snarls and blows as each fought for the upper hand. Physically, Wordy was in worse shape than his opponent, but righteous indignation and protective fury gave him an edge his double simply didn’t have. So did the fact that Wordy was _used_ to fighting hand-to-hand as opposed to with a wand.

The constable rolled, managing to put his double underneath him, and delivered another blow right to the other man’s jaw. The head-butt caught him by surprise, but Wordy swiftly retaliated with a foot that hooked under his opponent’s ankle and sent him tumbling again. The constable surged back, pinning the other with one knee and letting fly with his left fist. His shirt was grabbed and yanked down, but the much abused fabric tore. Undeterred, the wizard grabbed for Wordy’s wrist and twisted it. Wordy returned the favor with a jab right at his double’s eyes, encouraging the other man to let go.

As the fight continued, neither noticed when an odd necklace tumbled out of the double’s shirt. 

[2] Old English for ‘Cleanse the sickness. Heal thoroughly the flesh.’


	7. Imperius Antidote

Spike and Sarge closed in as Ed gawped at the fist fight, his jaw working soundlessly. Then he looked up. “Greg? What’s going on?”

Sarge’s eyes narrowed. There was something not quite right about his team leader. “OMAC Captain America,” he replied briskly, watching Ed as closely as possible.

“Huh?”

Sergeant and bomb tech traded looks, then Spike challenged, “I’m calling OMAC Mister Miracle.”

Ed stared between them, his confusion plain to see. “Okay?”

“Ed,” the Boss interceded, “Did you hear the phone ring half an hour ago?”

“No? Why? Did you call?”

“He’s out of it, Boss,” Spike hissed, looking down as Wordy and his double rolled again. An odd necklace caught Spike’s eye but before he could say anything, Wordy delivered a sharp kick to the imposter’s shin, drawing a pained yell, surged to his feet, and scrambled around the other man to catch him in a sleeper hold.

The man fought, his nails scrabbling over Wordy’s arm, then he sagged. At the exact same moment, Ed’s expression turned utterly blank and lax, a vague contentment appearing; if the officers needed any more proof that the _Imperius_ had been used, Ed’s reaction clinched it.

“Spike, check the house,” Sarge ordered. “Let’s see if this guy did the same thing to Sophie and Clark.”

“Copy,” Spike called back; he holstered his gun and sprinted for the house, shivering violently. Seriously, sometimes magic really, really scared him. He pushed Ed’s back patio door open and slid inside the house, his boss only a step behind him.

They found Clark in the living room, an open book lying in front of him and a trance-like expression on his face. Even when Spike waved a hand in front of his face, the teenager didn’t react, his eyes staring and an eerie blank contentment in his smile.

“Spike, get Clark outside,” Sarge ordered. “I’ll find Sophie.”

“Copy,” Spike agreed. “What do we do? Call Giles?”

“One step at a time, Spike,” the Sergeant chided before he left to find Sophie.

* * * * *

Why had he let Wordy come with them? Ah, yes, his constable’s stubborn refusal to relent, coupled with his own lingering guilt over McKean and his fresh chagrin over completely missing the imposter in their midst. He was just lucky this would stay magic-side or Holleran would be justified in a reprimand for bringing his constable anywhere near his kidnapper. And darn it, he _should_ have stuck to his guns; it would’ve been a lot safer for all of them, even the subject. Already drawn guns versus sheathed wand…although…with Ed under the _Imperius_, the subject might’ve been able to escape or draw his wand while he or Spike scrambled to restrain the mind-controlled team leader. Which would have been bad. Very bad.

Greg winced and forced the ‘what-ifs’ away; he’d made the decisions he had and so had Wordy…nothing to do but move forward and try to do better. The sound of an infant crying tingled at his gryphon side, drawing a low, furious hiss; Greg swatted it down even as he followed the sound to Izzy’s room, where he found both Izzy and Sophie.

Izzy, despite her crying and wailing, was unharmed and Greg was satisfied she hadn’t been _Imperiused_. Sophie, though, was standing over her daughter, not moving and her hands resting on the surface in front of her. Greg moved around to see better and winced internally. Wordy had knocked their subject out while Sophie was in the middle of changing her daughter’s diaper. Izzy spotted him and sobbed louder, demanding immediate attention. Greg sighed and moved Sophie to the side; she went willingly enough, but stood where he’d put her, arms limp at her sides and the same blank, vague smile on her face that was on her husband and son.

It took a bit of hunting to find the fresh diapers, then Greg returned to the changing area and applied skills he hadn’t needed for decades as he finished removing Izzy’s old diaper, disposed of it, and cleaned her up. With the infant clean, the Sergeant swiftly bundled her into the new diaper and lifted her off the table. Up close, Izzy stared at him with wide dark blue eyes, clearly not quite sure what to make of the new person in her life.

Greg bounced her, earning a gurgling giggle from the little girl.

“Sarge?”

“In here, Spike!” Greg called over his shoulder.

The bomb tech appeared in the doorway. “Everything okay?”

Parker turned, revealing the youngest Lane in his arms. “Sophie was in the middle of changing her,” he explained, tilting his head at the changing table. “Can you get Sophie outside?”

“Sure thing, Boss,” Spike agreed. “Clark’s outside and Wordy’s got our subject secured.”

“The subject’s wand?” Greg inquired pointedly.

“I’ll double-check,” Spike replied. “What now, Boss?”

Greg’s expression turned grave. “I’ll send out an alert to the team, see if our guy put anyone else under the _Imperius_.”

Spike winced.

* * * * *

Wordy looked up as his teammates arrived with Sophie and Izzy, the subject’s wand in his hands. “Subject secure, Sarge,” he reported.

The Sergeant nodded, his eyes skating over the subject, who still looked exactly like Wordy. “Any ideas what our subject is using?”

The brunet shook his head. “I didn’t find anything he could be using to carry Polyjuice.”

Spike tentatively offered, “Maybe he’s got Polyjuice that lasts the full twelve hours.” But even as he spoke, he scanned the subject, his expression thoughtful.

As the bomb tech paced around their captive, Wordy’s attention turned towards Ed; he bit his lip, then reached over and unclasped his bracelet, pulling it off his arm in one quick motion.

“Wordy?” Sarge questioned, his voice concerned.

“Sarge, I’m fine,” Wordy countered. “Just have an idea.” He looked between the bracelet and his team leader, calculation shimmering in gray eyes. Then he moved to Ed’s side and fastened the bracelet to the other man’s right arm. The runes lit green, but immediately shifted to blue. Looking back at a quizzical Sarge and Spike, Wordy added, “I think the reason the _Imperius_ on me kept breaking is my bracelet. I sure wasn’t fighting it; I can remember that much.”

Spike made a face at Wordy’s admission that he hadn’t been able to fight the curse, but he nodded. “I was sorta thinking the same thing, Sarge.”

The Sergeant considered both men as he adjusted Izzy’s position enough to dig his cell out. “Okay, worth a try,” he agreed. One handed, he composed a quick text and set it to his entire team.

Spike’s phone chimed and the tech gleefully pulled up the message and sent his own back, even though he was standing right next to his boss. Parker rolled his eyes at Spike’s antics.

“Spike, where’s my phone?” Wordy questioned.

“My place,” Spike replied at once. “I’ll get it back to you tomorrow, okay?”

“Copy.”

“All right,” Sarge mused, examining his screen. “Check-ins from everyone except Ed and Wordy. Looks like our subject was just getting started with his _Imperius_ curses.”

“That’s a relief,” Wordy muttered just as Ed jerked and let out a small gasp.

“What the?” Ed demanded, looking around. “When did you guys get here? Why am I outside?” He looked down, spotting Wordy’s bracelet, and immediately reached for it. The clasp stubbornly held, prompting a harder yank as Ed strained to get it open.

“Ed, Ed, stop,” Wordy intervened. “I put it on you.” In one quick movement, Wordy undid the clasp and pulled the bracelet away. As he headed over to Sophie, he added, over one shoulder, “We had an OMAC moment here.”

The team leader’s gaze sharpened. “OMAC?”

Spike let out a crow, drawing his teammates’ attention; Ed’s eyes nearly bugged out at the sight of another Wordy. “Got it!” Spike cheered.

“Got _what_?” Ed barked.

“This.” The bomb tech reached forward, grasping something none of his colleagues could see. He worked at it a moment, then pulled it apart. As he did so, the subject’s features shifted form, revealing short dark brown hair, a squarish jaw, and a much younger face. In the dim light, it was impossible to see much of the subject’s real appearance, though he did appear to be of average height and form.

Spike pulled whatever he’d found away from the subject and straightened, holding up a necklace with a large crystal dangling from it. The crystal was clear all the way through and cut in a prism shape. “This must be what he used to look like you, Wordy.”

“What is it?” Wordy asked from his spot next to Sophie.

“Not sure,” Spike admitted. “Maybe Giles might know.”

Ed looked between the subject and his best friend. “So, we had this guy stealing Wordy’s spot and what? Using the _Imperius_ on my family?”

“Yes,” Sarge confirmed quietly, his expression grim as he regarded the subject. Then his eyes darted to Sophie and he hastily moved over to Ed. “Ed, quick, take Izzy.”

Izzy squealed in delight and reached for her father, but he didn’t move to take her. “Greg, she looks just fine where she is.” An amused, stubborn glint entered blue eyes as Parker blanched.

“Ed, take her and don’t tell Sophie I was anywhere near her. I’d rather not get my head chopped off.”

“And Soph needs to stop acting like you _deliberately_ tried to hurt Izzy,” Ed retorted. “I’ll take the heat.”

Before the Sergeant could argue further, Sophie let out a shriek as the curse on her broke. She snapped around, bewildered by her surroundings, then spotted Ed and flew into his arms. “Eddie! Are you all right?”

Ed hugged her back and gently held her arm still so Wordy could retrieve his bracelet and move it to Clark. “Soph, I’m okay and the guy that did this to us is in cuffs.”

“Ed, it was…”

“No, it wasn’t,” Ed denied, not letting her finish. “I know it looked like Wordy, but it wasn’t him.” He turned Sophie, letting her watch as Wordy fastened his bracelet around Clark’s wrist. “Don’t have all the details yet, Soph, but it wasn’t Wordy.”

She shuddered violently, then froze. “Izzy!”

Ed spotted Greg’s flinch, but refused to flinch himself. “Soph, easy, easy, Izzy’s okay. Greg’s got her.”

Sophie followed her husband’s gaze and flew out of his grip to nearly snatch her daughter out of Greg’s arms. With Izzy safe in her grasp, she checked her daughter over, tossing Ed dirty looks as she worked. Satisfied that Izzy was unharmed, the brunette turned towards her husband, glaring. “Ed.”

“Sophie, enough,” Ed growled, his shoulders stiffening. “Greg didn’t hurt her. Not tonight and not that day.” He gifted his wife with an indignant expression. “And _you_ didn’t tell me about the wings or anything else. Sure would’ve been nice to know before Greg here fell off a cliff and they popped out again.”

Greg wished himself somewhere, _anywhere_ else, but held his ground as Sophie gawped at him. In lieu of that, he ducked his head. “Sophie, I’m sorry about what happened. I’d take it back if I could, but we both know I can’t.” He shifted back, regretting the words even as he spoke. “If you want me to leave, I will. Spike and Wordy can finish up while I wait by my car.”

Sophie’s eyes narrowed and she absently bounced Izzy in her arms. Izzy laughed and giggled, drawing her mother’s affectionate gaze. Then Sophie’s eyes narrowed even farther as she noticed something. Izzy’s diaper had been tied just a bit differently than either she or Ed tied it. With her free hand, Sophie checked the diaper over, her expression turning thoughtful and considering.

“Greg, did you change Izzy?”

Surprised, Parker nodded confirmation.

Looking up, Sophie remarked, “You did a good job.” She watched as shock and surprise appeared on Greg’s face and he looked genuinely unsure of how to handle the compliment. A slight teasing smile appeared on her face. “I may have to send Eddie to you for lessons.”

Wordy burst out laughing. “Ed, I think your ‘dad’ card just got revoked,” he teased.

Ed’s eyes glinted with equal humor. “Think I can get it back if I apply to the Boss for lessons?”

Mischief danced on both of their faces as they turned towards their bewildered boss. Sophie laughed at all three of them and Spike wisely stayed out of the discussion. Her gaze swung back to Parker and turned serious. “I’m still not happy with you, Greg, but I’m not going to kick you out either.” She turned as Clark gasped and came back to himself, then gave her husband’s coworkers her best ‘mama bear’ look. “Now, will someone tell me what the heck is going on?!?”


	8. You Let Her Die!

Dominic Scarlatti permitted his son to usher him to a chair in the police station’s observation room. Once he was sitting, he turned his attention towards the sullen, angry young man in the interrogation room. The man’s hair was a dark brown, short but shaped a bit like his son’s, minus the spiking Michelangelo favored. Brown eyes burned as they watched his son’s superior officer and the man’s face was rigid with anger, fury, and no small amount of hate.

The sound of the door to the observation room opening drew Dominic’s attention and he was hard put to keep from reacting. The man who entered looked like an older version of the young man in the other room. But he clearly didn’t share his young version’s fury, for he inspected Michelangelo’s coworker with open concern.

“Wordy, you all right?”

“I’m fine, Giles,” Wordy replied, gifting the new arrival with a wan smile. “Lost a pound or two, but it could’ve been worse.”

“And the suspect?” Anger simmered in the words.

Wordy gestured to the interrogation room. “Sarge is just getting started.”

“Good.”

Dominic watched as this ‘Giles’ came to stand by him, then Giles got a good look at the young man and paled, the color draining from his face as he stared. One hand came up and rested on the glass; devastation shone in the older man’s brown eyes.

* * * * *

Greg Parker regarded the angry young man, resisting the urge to hike a brow. For all that the young man had attacked his team, the fact remained that neither he nor any other member of his team had ever met the subject before. There was, therefore, no reason that _Greg_ knew of for the subject to have attacked his team. That meant, at the very least, that he was missing part of the puzzle. Time to see if he could get his hands on the puzzle pieces.

“Name?”

Brown eyes narrowed in hatred, but their owner didn’t respond.

The Sergeant let his own gaze harden. “Son, you attacked four people with the _Imperius_ curse; that’s four automatic life sentences in McKean Magical Prison. You can either talk to _me_ now or you can talk at your trial under _Veritaserum_. Your choice.” He let the sentence hang, then repeated, calmly, “Name?”

Sullenly, the young man replied, “Moffet.”

Ah, now he was getting a better idea of _why_. Leaning back, Greg studied his suspect. “You don’t look much like Dr. Moffet.”

Resentment flashed. “He took me in when I was little.”

“Adopted?” Greg pressed.

A half-shrug. “Like _you_ care.”

Part of Greg wanted to keep prodding at whatever young Moffet was hiding, but the kid had a point. He was far more interested in the attack on his team. “Let’s talk about your abduction of Auror Constable Wordsworth. Why him?”

Moffet sneered haughtily. “He gave me an opening.”

“When he stopped at a convenience store,” Parker concluded; Moffet didn’t nod, but there was a slight gleam that told the negotiator he was right. Leaning forward, Parker questioned, “So, why kidnap him? Why impersonate him?”

“You Muggles,” the young man spat. “You come into _our_ world, threaten _our_ way of life. You _murdered_ my father! I wasn’t going to let you get away with it!” He glared at Greg, his rage twisting his face. “Do what you want to me, Muggle. I don’t regret _anything!_”

“So,” Greg concluded grimly, “You wanted revenge? For Dr. Moffet’s death?”

Another sneer curled Moffet’s lip, but he didn’t respond.

The door to the interrogation room burst open, a ghost-pale Giles in the doorway. He stared at the suspect, grief and shock mixing on his face. Raspy soft, almost croaking, he whispered, “Dustil?”

Greg Parker froze, looking between their suspect and Auror Giles Onasi. The father-son resemblance was unmistakable. Moffet…no, _Dustil Onasi_…was looking up at his father, his eyes narrow and a slightly puzzled twist to his jaw. Giles stepped farther into the room, his gaze fixed on the young man, practically drinking in the sight of his now full grown son.

Recognition flared, then Dustil’s face went twice as hard as it had been before. “You let her die!” he screamed, trying to surge up from his seat; the cuffs around his wrists, secured to the interrogation table’s underside, jerked and kept the young man half-seated, no matter how hard he struggled. “You let Mom die! You _monster! I hate you!_”

Giles reeled backwards, as if the words themselves were physical blows. “I didn’t,” he protested automatically. “Dustil, I swear to you, I did _everything_ I could to find you and your mother. I…I was holding her when she died.” Tears slid down the Auror’s face, but he didn’t even seem to notice. “I looked for you, son. I spent _years_ hunting for you, you have to believe me.”

“I’m _glad_ you never found me!” Dustil snarled. “I had a _real_ father, one who _cared_ about me and _never_ abandoned me.”

Parker surged between the two before the grieving father could respond. “Giles, _out!_” he ordered, shoving the taller man to the door and through it. Without skipping a beat, Parker shoved it closed and turned, pressing his back into the door to keep Giles from trying to come back in. He fixed Dustil Onasi with a steady, unimpressed look. “Mr. Onasi, _sit_ back down, _now_.”

“Moffet,” Dustil hissed. “That _man_ is not my father!”

The Sergeant didn’t even twitch. “Unless and until you can produce a document certifying your change of name, I am legally bound to refer to you by your current legal name, Mr. Onasi.”

The young man bristled furiously, but Parker didn’t particularly care if he threw a tantrum.

Satisfied that he’d successfully evicted Giles from the interrogation room, Parker moved away from the door and sat down in his seat again, calculating his next move. Dustil was going to prison; there was no way around _that_; but perhaps… Without looking at Dustil, Greg announced, “Nick Watson.”

“Who?”

A faint trace of amusement shone. “The man who murdered your mother and kidnapped you,” Greg explained. “Your father was part of the team that brought him down.” He let that hang, then added, “Of course, before being stopped, Watson was responsible for murdering three undercover Aurors as well as your father’s partner.”

Dustil snorted, unimpressed. “People die. All the time,” he sneered.

Parker nodded, his posture almost thoughtful. “Tell me, Mr. Onasi, how familiar are you with Dr. Moffet’s last operation?”

“He was just trying to keep our world safe,” Dustil muttered resentfully. “And _you Muggles_ murdered him!”

“So you weren’t aware of his plot to frame my team for two prison breakouts as well as your father’s attempted murder?” The negotiator’s voice was calm, as was his expression.

“He what?” Dustil shook his head frantically. “No, you’re _lying_. He wouldn’t do that. He wouldn’t.”

* * * * *

Dominic Scarlatti was unsurprised when the distraught father nearly ran his son’s coworkers down in his rush to get back to the glass between the observation room and the interrogation room. Brown eyes fixed on the young criminal and he seemed completely unaware of the concerned looks being traded back and forth behind his back. One hand came up, resting on the glass as longing carved lines in Onasi’s face.

Without thinking, Dominic turned enough in his seat to look up at his son, gratitude flooding his soul that he still _had_ Michelangelo, unlike the poor man to his left. Sergeant Parker’s voice brought Dominic back around and he studied young Dustil as Michelangelo’s boss laid out the bare facts behind the events after his son’s arrest that awful, terrible night. More than that, Parker took the time to tell Dustil about _prior_ events, events that this Dr. Moffet had set in motion with the intention to start a war.

The young man refused to listen, spitting as much vitriol at the Sergeant as he could manage and denying every single one of the facts he was given. Beside Dominic, Dustil’s father sagged down with each venom-laced insult and retort. Raw grief added years to the man’s face.

A creak from the observation room door drew Dominic’s attention to a new arrival, hurrying in and straight towards Onasi. “Giles?”

Without turning away from the glass, Onasi croaked, “Roy, he’s alive. Dustil’s _alive_.”

“And in big trouble,” the man who’d introduced himself as Ed tacked on. “We’ve got him for using the _Imperius_ Curse on four people, unlawful detainment, and impersonating a law enforcement officer.”

Roy’s expression went graver with each word and anguish shone in Onasi’s eyes, joy and loss felt in equal measure. Joy, for his son’s survival; loss, that he was about to lose his son again. “It’s my fault,” Onasi rasped. “If I’d given Watson what he wanted…”

“It never would’ve been over,” Ed snapped. “With that first time hanging over you, Giles? Watson would’ve _owned_ you, lock, stock, and barrel. And who’s to say that, at some point down the road, he wouldn’t have asked for something you couldn’t do. You think he would’ve left your family alone?”

“Revan would still be alive,” Onasi shot back. “At least the only life I’d’ve ruined would’ve been _mine_.”

“No, it wouldn’t have been,” Michelangelo’s best friend put in, his expression serious. “Every time you gave Watson what he wanted, you’d have signed someone’s death warrant. Maybe not right then, but down the line.” He let the words hang, then added, “And what if your wife had found out what you were doing?”

Onasi flinched violently. “She’d have skinned me alive,” came the hoarse admission. “Never would’ve stood for me selling out my colleagues.”

Dominic cleared his throat and pinned his fellow father with a stern expression. “Your son may be angry at you now, but you know he is wrong. It would be much worse if he were _right_.”

Michelangelo nodded agreement. “We’ve got your back, Giles.”

It was not enough, Dominic knew that. No, a hole would always exist in Giles Onasi’s heart, right where his wife and son used to be. In that moment, the dying man understood; he had a priceless, precious gift that he’d been squandering in his refusal to let Michelangelo live his own life. It was time to stop squandering what little time he had left with his son.


	9. This is My Life

Greg Parker stared at Dustil Onasi in frustration. He’d tried straightforward and blunt, tried a sort of flip and twist, asking Dustil what _he_ would have done to protect the magical world from someone trying to start a war, but the young man had a smart-mouth answer for _everything_. Sarcasm and disdain marked almost every word. A new idea poked in; the Sergeant considered it, then mentally shrugged. Worth a shot.

“What can you tell me about what happened after your mother’s death?” he inquired, watching Dustil closely.

Dustil jerked back, helpless fury flashing, but when it became clear Greg would wait as long as he had to, the young man drew in a shaky breath, his eyes falling to his hands. “I, um, don’t remember much,” he admitted softly. “I remember Mom telling me to be strong before they took me away. I knew she was dead, but I wasn’t…I wasn’t there…” Old grief shimmered in Dustil’s eyes. “I think it was a year later when they got tired of me and someone…asked to buy me.”

The Sergeant restrained a furious hiss at that, his shoulders tightening.

The other didn’t notice; his eyes stared into his past as he continued, “I didn’t like him, but I didn’t have anywhere to go. I remember hoping someone would come and take me away.” A hoarse laugh. “Then someone _did_.”

“Dr. Moffet.”

A nod. “He was surprised to see me; I guess the guy had worked for him or something, but he found out my father wasn’t a pureblood. He took me home with him and gave me new clothes and a sandwich.” A fond reminiscing smile appeared. “He taught me how to read and he even tried to find my family after I told him about Mom.”

Shock raced through Greg, but then he reconsidered. Even the worst human being alive still had a soul, still had a spark of what they could’ve been. Moffet had been a monster, no two ways about it, but he’d done right by Dustil Onasi. Even if Dustil’s version of events was rose-colored, somehow Greg didn’t doubt him that Moffet _had_ tried to investigate his young charge’s background. Curious, Greg questioned, “Did he find anything?”

Dustil shook his head. “I didn’t know enough,” he explained. “I knew Mom and I had been taken, but not who did it. I didn’t have a last name and I didn’t know when it happened.”

Thoughtfully, Greg tacked on, “And Dr. Moffet didn’t know who did the original kidnapping because by the time _he_ found you, you’d already left Watson’s custody.”

Surprise shone in Dustil’s eyes, then he dropped his gaze to the table. “Last year, he sent me to one of his labs; someone there was making a fuss about using Muggle weapons. I was still there when the goblins raided us.”

“You escaped.”

A darting, resentful look. “I came home, but everyone was gone. I didn’t find out father was dead until the newspapers published the story.”

Parker winced. “That’s when you decided to come after my team,” he concluded. “Where did you get the crystal?”

A slight shrug. “Father made it. He told me once that we’d forgotten the magic of the ancients and we had to bring it back if our world was going to be safe from _your_ kind.”

“It’s from the Old Religion?”

Dustil smirked. “Once you touch the crystal to someone’s blood, you can take their form. And it doesn’t run out, like Polyjuice does. All I needed was an opening.”

Greg stiffened. In _that_ case, why was Wordy even still alive? Even hidden away, Wordy had been a loose end. “So you grabbed Constable Wordsworth,” he observed calmly. “And took his place on my team. What was your plan after _Imperiusing_ Constable Lane and his family?”

For the first time, Dustil hesitated and the hate on his face faltered. “I don’t know,” he confessed after a few minutes. He bit his lip, almost as if he wanted to ask a question, but wasn’t quite sure how to phrase it. Parker waited, one eyebrow up. “Why didn’t you kill that guy?”

“What guy?”

The suspect fidgeted in his seat. “The first day, when we had to go out…”

Oh. The Sergeant considered his response, then decided to, for a moment, treat Dustil as if he was a fellow cop. “The Strategic Response Unit,” he announced, waiting for Dustil to look up. “Connect, respect, protect. Talk before tactics.” The negotiator watched the young man’s face as he continued, “Our _job_ is to get as many people as we can out alive. _Including_ the subjects. Sometimes we can’t do that, but sometimes we can. We can negotiate the subject down and get them to surrender peacefully.”

“But you couldn’t with my father?”

Rather than respond, Greg inquired, “If Dr. Moffet had been the one to snatch my constable, what would he have done?”

“Father would’ve gotten his blood and killed him,” Dustil replied at once. “You don’t leave an enemy alive.”

The veteran cop refused to flinch at the callous words. “But you didn’t kill him.” And young Onasi could’ve screwed up the hot call. Easily. Effortlessly. But he hadn’t and Spike had even mentioned that their imposter had asked him if anything was wrong on the second day. Yes, Onasi _could_ have asked simply to maintain his cover, but Greg wasn’t seeing that. No, he had a feeling that Moffet had shuffled his young apprentice off to another location because he’d _known_ Dustil wasn’t like him. He’d _known_ that Dustil still had the bare remnants of the moral code his parents had taught him, that there were lines the young man would not cross.

Dustil squirmed at Parker’s words. “He couldn’t fight back. And I thought, maybe I could get him to tell me stuff about you.”

The negotiator ignored the second sentence. The key was in the first; faced with a defenseless opponent, Onasi hadn’t been able to kill. He’d even brought Wordy food and water; it was debatable as to whether or not Dustil had known just how sick Wordy had been getting right there at the end of his captivity.

After a moment, Greg pulled out a yellow pad of paper and a pen. He pushed them across the table. “You’re going to McKean,” he told Dustil bluntly. “Nothing can change that. But give us a complete statement and keep on cooperating, and I’ll see what we can do for you.” He considered, then added, “If you’re willing, Mr. Onasi, give me two statements. One about what happened after you and your mother were kidnapped and one about this week.”

“Why?”

Greg met challenging brown eyes. “If we can identify any of the individuals involved in the kidnapping and your mother’s death, we can use your statement as evidence against them. Nick Watson is dead, but I highly doubt he committed his crimes against you and your mother alone.”

Dustil considered that, then nodded acceptance; pulling the pad closer, he lifted his right hand and started writing, the cuff around his wrist clinking softly.

* * * * *

Dominic Scarlatti was forced to wait until the young man had written both statements and signed them before Sergeant Parker would permit him into the room. In truth, Michelangelo’s boss hadn’t wanted him to talk to their suspect at all, but the elder Scarlatti had refused to give way. He was under no illusions; Parker had backed down for his own reasons, not because Dominic had _truly_ managed to overrule him.

The elderly man entered the interrogation room and made his way to the chair Sergeant Parker had been using. Dustil Onasi regarded him in some confusion as he sat down, coughing and hacking. When the attack stopped, Dominic fixed the young man with a stern expression. “You are being foolish,” he announced.

Onasi bristled. “You don’t even _know_ me, old man!”

“You hold a grudge against your father for doing what was right,” Dominic informed Onasi frostily. “Only the man who murdered your mother holds the blame for her death and he is dead now. Your father had no part in her death.”

“He abandoned us!”

“It is abandonment if another takes your family?” Dominic questioned, sarcasm etched in every syllable. When the young man opened his mouth, one hand crashed down on the metal table. “_Basta_!” The youth froze. “I do not know all. I do not need to. You throw away your father because he could not do the impossible. You are a fool to throw away family.”

“He’s _not_ my family!” the young fool hissed. “And what would _you_ know about it?”

Dominic folded his hands together, pushing back another hacking attack. “Until last evening, I had not spoken to my son in over a year.” He watched Onasi’s jaw drop open in shock. “I am proud of my son, but he risks his life. Every day, we wait for a phone call. The knock at the door. I wait for the day when my son cannot cheat the Reaper.”

Onasi swallowed hard, the defiance leaving his posture. “So you pushed him away? So it wouldn’t hurt as much?”

A slow shake of the head, but Dominic refused to elaborate. “When the men with magic sticks came and took Michelangelo away for a crime he did not commit, I did not think I would ever see him again. Even when he came home, I still would not speak to him.” The next words were the hardest he’d ever spoken, but somehow they came out. “I was wrong; I squandered time with my son. You squander time with your father over petty grudge.”

“Petty?” the young man echoed incredulously. “My mother _dying_ because of him is _petty_?”

Dominic snorted his disdain. “Do not wait too long, young fool, or you find yourself with no family at all,” he advised before he lumbered back to his feet. He paused, looking down at the young man. “You did wrong,” he observed. “But what you did gave me back my son.” Without another word, the old man made his way out the door, unsurprised when Michelangelo appeared seconds later to guide him to a chair.

“Papá?”

Wary caution. Dominic waited until he was seated before he responded, his gaze on his hopeful son. **“You bring this into our house,”** he began, watching as hope winked out. **“When I am gone and _you_ are gone, who will care for your mother?”**

Michelangelo looked down at his feet, shuffling them a little. **“I don’t know, Papá, but I’ll find a way. She won’t lack for anything, I promise you.”**

Silence hung between them. Then Dominic sighed. **“You will not leave?”**

**“No, Papá.”**

He had expected that, though he didn’t like it. **“You will be careful?”**

**“As careful as I can, Papá, but…”**

A single nod and an upraised hand silenced Michelangelo. **“You should not worry your mother so,”** Dominic chided. **“But I will not squander what time we have left, Michelangelo.”**

Joy shone. **“You’ll talk to me again?”**

Dominic gestured for his son to move down to his level; hesitantly, Michelangelo did so and squeaked in surprise when Dominic pulled him close. It wasn’t a hug, precisely, but the elder man’s affection was clearer than the younger could ever remember. **“I did not lie; I am _proud_ of you,”** Dominic murmured. **“I wish you would find another job, Michelangelo, a _better_ job, but I have never stopped being proud of you, son.”**

Michelangelo forced down a treacherous tear or two. **“This is my life, Papá,”** he whispered.

Looking over his son’s shoulder, Dominic noticed that Michelangelo’s coworkers were watching, far enough away to give them privacy, but close enough to give his son support. Almost like…no, _exactly_ like family. Finally, he understood; his son defied him for the sake of his chosen family, a family just as important and valuable as his blood family. A family that would come to his son’s aid when he was gone, a family that would look after his widow as their own if ever his son did not come home. Michelina would lack for nothing.

And in his heart, Dominic gave thanks for very same job he hated.

_~ Fin_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, not a _perfect_ outcome for our favorite bomb tech, but at least his father's talking to him again! I hope everyone enjoyed the latest installment in our series. And as always, I would love any and all comments.
> 
> Our next story, "Just Another Birthday", will kick off Friday, October 25th, 2019.

**Author's Note:**

> Sadly, my readers on this site can't vote in my poll on Fanfiction.net (unless you have an account over there!), but if you'd like to tell me your choice in a comment (I don't think this site has PMs), I'll certainly add it to the mix. For those of you who gave me your choice already, I've made a note of it. The poll closes on Friday, September 27th, 2019 so if you'd like to make a choice, please comment before Friday.
> 
> Aslan Bless!


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